In both Rome and Hong Kong I had started to chronicle my travels and send email travelogues to friends and family. In part, my writing was the result of being on my own so much. I needed to speak, in English. I needed to communicate what I was experiencing.
Up to this point, my writing life had existed only in screenplay format. Writing prose and memoir was fresh territory and my readers back home responded favorably to my efforts.
After lunch with William one afternoon in Hong Kong, I broached the subject of taking my writing further.
Hey, you know, I think I might be able to write a book.
What do you mean?
Like, maybe a book about my travels, expanding on my email essays.
William and I have a favorite travel writer who will remain nameless at this juncture, but that writer's name came up right here.
Well, William offered, you're no _____________________.
I know I'm not __________________! I'm not saying I'm ______________! I'm saying I'm me and I think I have a book in me.
And then I cried. And he felt terrible.
Later on, this incident came up with our therapist.
Okay, William, she said, you basically pulled out a gun and shot her dream in the head. What are you, a literary critic? This is your wife, your partner. You stand behind her one hundred percent, no less. And, Mel, this is not about you. This is about how he sees himself.
If that comment had come from a colleague or friend, I may have thought fuck off and been done with it.
But it came from him. The one I want to impress. The one I want to make proud. I wanted his advice and encouragement. I craved his admiration. But in the moment I shrank away and heard a parent's voice from a long time ago. I sailed right on back to my eight-year-old self on the night I announced to my family that I wanted to grow up to be a professional actress.
What? You're not pretty. Don't be ridiculous. You'll be a nurse and that's that.
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